She must have recognized me. She was in that garden for an hour and had looked over her shoulder thirty, maybe forty times. Half of her glances included a smile. One was followed by the dropping of her gloves, moving as if she might come say hello. She didn’t. Instead, she wiped sweat from her forehead and sipped blush wine from a glass with ice cubes. Finally, she waved. Rock on. 

We were in Central Vermont. The East Village may boast celebrities on every corner, but not here. So, when a guy with my history moves in, you’re going to notice. She had but was playing coy. For the moment, I was alright with that.

The early June sun and scurrying breeze had most of the cul-de-sac tending to their lawns, pools, and landscaping. Mowers roared, weed whackers whined, and dogs barked as they chased sweaty humans around their lawns. My canine pal, Pickle—a twenty-pound pug with the energy of a world champion tumbling squad—surveyed the neighborhood and its inhabitants, hoping to soon drench them in slobber. He was most interested, as was I, in the gardening beauty a hundred yards away.

“We just got here, buddy. Let’s soak it in for a bit,” I told him. He tilted his head, and one-third of his tongue stuck through his crooked little choppers.

I should have been inside writing instead of gawking. Half the reason I migrated here was “the book.” But the weather was sublime and my motivation had dwindled from paltry to zero percent. It didn’t need to be on paper yet anyway. It was all safely tucked away in the noggin’, ready to be unleashed soon enough. I’m no writer, but a hefty advance and my name on something other than a bunch of crappy songs written years ago sounded appealing. Plus, after everything that happened, time to get the hell out of L.A.

Los Angeles gets a bad rap, so I won’t pile on, but I was more than ready for a change. There are few natives there—everyone is from someplace else. Half the people you bump into on the street are more famous than you. The ones that aren’t want to know how you can help them be. Eh, I said I wouldn’t pile on. Vermont’s nice. There’s a familial quality to it, all New England really, that’s missing in Southern California.

I could have brought my laptop outside, busted out pages as the mowers whirred, sipping on an IPA, all the while glancing across the street like some creep. She hadn’t been shy about staying in my eyeline, so it wouldn’t be that creepy. Pathetic, yes. Pickle sure wanted to say hello. He whimpered and wiggled his curly tail every time she looked over, which he noticed despite the distance. The dog could spot a pinto bean atop Mount Everest, and I could barely read my driver’s license from a foot away.

“Soon enough, Pick,” I told him, which sent his wrinkled, apple-sized head tilting in the opposite direction and his tongue back into his mouth.

It was always possible that she didn’t know me and was just being curiously friendly. The previous owner of the house, Bob, lived there for twenty-five years from what I heard at the closing. Anyone new in the neighborhood would draw stares. Maybe she heard about “the incident” on the TV show and was concerned her tranquil cul-de-sac would be turned into a den of debauchery, sending property values into the dumper. I had no such plan, so those fears would be unfounded. Of course, my relationship with booze left the door of possibility open.

Her house was smaller than mine, but the exquisite landscaping made it look more impressive. I paid a couple fellas from Craigslist to plant a few bushes and tune up the lawn before I moved in, but there was no comparison. She had rose bushes, rhododendrons, and begonias all exploding with pinks, reds, and yellows. And her grass was greener than one of those awful smoothies I used to drink at the gym back in Cali.

Little Miss-Yellow-Sundress-Pulling-Weeds caught me staring and smiled. I waved to her as my other hand stroked Pickle’s head. He whimpered, still wondering why we weren’t frolicking with the beautiful woman across the road. It’d be douchey if I didn’t go say hello soon, but I also didn’t want to go in guns blazing. Central Vermont, with its clean air, quiet streets, forthright people, and relaxed pace was dead nut opposite of Los Angeles. I wasn’t about to muck up the flow. Plus, I’m not a kid anymore and my body has serious objections to standing up too fast.

This was the second time I’d seen her outside since I moved in, and so far, no sign of other life. No lover, no children, no pets. They might all be playing Xbox inside and chewing rawhides and whatnot, but early indications were that she lived in the quaint little shack all by herself. If the book I was supposed to be writing were a novel, and not whatever it’s yet to be and was paid too much money to scribble, I could pen some fiery thriller—The Woman in the Yellow Dress—she lures people into her picturesque home with sultry smiles, boxed wine, and pleasantries, only to poison them and use their remains as garden fertilizer. That was probably already a book. Had to be. And that was precisely why I was writing a memoir and not a novel. The only original idea I’d had in years was to up and leave L.A. almost overnight. 

Shit, that wasn’t even original. 

I chose Vermont because I’d always loved it as a child. I grew up in Connecticut, and at Christmas, my mother would take us to see cousins in Rutland. I loved the powdery quality of the snow and the way it clung to the trees, covering nearly every visible surface. Snowmobiles filled the streets, and nobody was ever yelling. People smiled, knew each other by name, even shook hands out of respect. Those winter days were filled with us kids drinking hot cocoa and sledding. The adults tipped small bottles into their coffees, laughing loudly around a wood stove.

I found the house by sheer luck. One of my band roadies mentioned his father was selling his Vermont property so I looked at the pictures online and did a quick video tour; it was just what I wanted. I made the deal through email and flew in for the closing. I should’ve cased the neighborhood a bit because who the hell knew what kind of backwoods loons might be living next door. Forensic Files reruns occasionally flitted through my head, but so far it seemed safe enough. Then again, how would I know? Pickle was no help because Charlie Manson could walk up to the front door with a Satanic Bible, a battleax, and a flame thrower and he’d still lick the dude’s skin off as his tail went in two hundred–mile–per–hour circles atop his wiggly butt.

I decided to head over and say hello. What’s the worst that could happen? A whole hell of a lot, especially if you had read that awful, The Woman in the Yellow Dress. I tied Pickle to his run, because he can be a bucketload to take in at first if you’re not a dog person. He’d climb straight into your mouth if you weren’t careful. 

The little bugger looked at me like I’d just strapped him into the electric chair when I clipped his run onto his collar. “Holy smokes, and I thought I was pathetic. Well, you know what, pal. We're a package deal. If she’s got a problem with you then she has one with me. Let’s go,” I instructed, unclipping the tether, sending him into spastic circles.

Pickle bounded across the lawn, careful not to travel more than a few feet ahead of me, as always. He relished outdoor adventures but wanted me close by to experience them with him.

“She may be more of a cat person, buddy,” I told the panting pooch. He looked up at me but continued prancing forward, tongue stuck out like an Olympic ski jump.

Man, I love that dog.